


Reunited

by write_for_your_life



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: -Ish, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Case Fic, Fake/Pretend Relationship, First Kiss, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Friends to Lovers, It's For a Case, M/M, Murder, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-07-06
Updated: 2019-06-04
Packaged: 2019-06-06 02:24:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 10
Words: 9,877
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15184682
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/write_for_your_life/pseuds/write_for_your_life
Summary: Sherlock wants to go to his high school reunion, but needs someone to pretend to be his spouse to attend.His not-so-platonic flatmate is more than happy to play along.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Hello!  
> Thank you so much for clicking on my fic - it won't disappoint!  
> Just to let you know: I'm aware that high school reunions aren't really a thing in England, but this fic was to fill a prompt one of my friends gave me (OTP at a high school reunion) and I couldn't resist writing John and Sherlock in.  
> Happy reading!

It wasn’t that John wasn’t used to the gunshots that plagued the flat every time Sherlock was bored, it was that this was the longest John had ever had to deal with them.

 

Bullets flew from the firearm in quick succession, battering the spray-painted smiley face with holes. The perpetrator sat (if you could call it that) sprawled across his chair, silky blue robe pooling around him. Sherlock was practically melting into the cushions; on account of the heat or of the boredom, no one would ever know.

 

Upstairs, John sat with his laptop, trying to convince himself he wasn’t as annoyed as he actually was with his flatmate. Summer air suffocated his room in humidity, which didn’t exactly help his mood. He squeezed his eyes shut with each gunshot, tapping his fingers against his bed in hopes that somehow, it would calm him.

 

No such luck.

 

“Sherlock, can you _please_ stop shooting up the wall for one bloody second?” John  clambered downstairs, glaring.

 

Sherlock threw down his gun, clearly as irritated as John. “If you can suggest anything better to do, I will!” He stood up, stepped onto and over John’s armchair, and collapsed across the kitchen counter. For once, it was clear of test tubes and chemicals.

 

Dragging his arms down with him, Sherlock sank to the floor like an angry toddler. “Do criminals not even have the decency to keep me occupied?”

 

“How rude of them not to murder anyone just for you.”

 

“Exactly!”

 

John turned around and raided the fridge, looking past the moldy ears and rotting teeth  for ice cream, lemonade, or  _ anything _ cold. He had learned not to trust the water after drinking what looked to be a harmful-bacteria free glass.

 

Looks can be deceiving.

 

“I don’t know what you want from me, Sherlock. Play the violin, or something. Maybe you could even pick up groceries! Imagine that.”

 

Groaning, Sherlock pulled himself off the ground and stood in the doorway. The sun lit him from behind, giving him an almost-holy appearance. His black curls stood on end, and loose pyjamas draped across his body like paint on a canvas.

 

John’s breath caught in his throat, which he cleared moments after.

 

“The violin is only for releasing the emotions that climb out from under the mountain I buried them in, John, and boredness isn't one of them. Besides, I'm banned from almost every grocery store within a thirty mile radius.”

 

"How'd you get banned from a grocery store?”

 

Sherlock cocked an eyebrow at him, leaning against the doorframe.

 

John sighed. “Never mind. I don't want to know.”

 

Closing the fridge, John began to head back upstairs. “Lestrade really doesn’t have  _ anything _ ?” He asked in vain, poking his head back downstairs. Sherlock shook his head. “Is there seriously nothing else you can do?”

 

Sherlock opened his mouth to speak, then closed it. Tilting his head to one side, he furrowed his brows. “Well…”

 

“Whatever it is, do it. Please.”

 

Beat. “I would need your help.”

 

\- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - 

 

“Really? You want to go to your high school reunion?” 

John sat in his armchair, one hand on each knee, and an incredulous look on his face. “ _ You _ ? Seriously?”

 

Sherlock huffed impatiently. “Yes, John, I do. Is that such a crime? You’re the one who’s always bugging me to socialize, anyway.” He leaned over and grabbed his laptop off the coffee table, tossing it into John’s lap. “First tab.” Perching on the end of the sofa, Sherlock steepled his fingers.

 

John quickly read over the email. It seemed like a typical reunion - probably a bunch of almost-strangers with name tags milling around a punch table. “O… kay? Seems normal. Why do you need my help?”

 

Taking his time with word choice, Sherlock let his hands fall to his sides. “A lot of people will be there.”

 

“Well, yeah.”

 

“A lot of people who don’t particularly like me.”

 

“Where is this going?”

 

Sherlock sighed. “I need you to come with me, because I’m going to have a miserable time if you don’t.”

 

Blinking, John sat back in his chair. “Oh. Alright.”

 

"Alright?” Sherlock looked surprised.

 

“Yeah, sure. I don’t mind going. Why are you so shocked?”

 

"So you’re okay with pretending to be my husband?”

 

John froze, then quickly turned to look at Sherlock. He slowly worded out the next sentence. “What do you mean, ‘husband’?” For some unknown reason, his heart rate began to increase.

 

Fiddling his hands, Sherlock looked to the side, refusing to make eye contact with John. He ran a hand through his hair, and spoke. “Look at the bottom of the invite. Everyone’s bringing their spouse.”

 

John quickly scrolled to the bottom of the screen, skimming the last couple lines.  _ Plus 1 for that special someone! _ Oh, God. “So everyone else is going with their husband or wife…”

 

"Correct.”

 

"...so for me to come, we have to pretend to be married.”

 

Sherlock took a breath. “Yep.”

 

An unsure silence fell between the two, only broken by the distant humming of John’s bedroom ceiling fan. It stretched a few moments too long for a natural conversation break, but they both pretended not to notice. “I guess I’ll do it. I mean, it’s only one night.”

 

Sherlock blinked a few times in surprise, the corners of his mouth twitching up. “Great. It’s a da- plan.”

 

John nodded and gave the laptop back to Sherlock, still not meeting his eyes. Walking back upstairs to his room, his words repeated in his head.

 

_ It’s only one night. _


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tension fills 221B as John and Sherlock discuss the logistics of their plan.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello!  
> First of all, let me just say that the breaks between the next chapters will not be as long - family vacation and all kinds of stuff took up most of my days, but I finally got around to writing chapter 2.  
> I'm sorry I haven't actually gotten the boys out of the flat yet, but I promise promise PROMISE they will be interacting with other people by chapter 3.  
> Comments, criticism, and kudos are appreciated!

It wasn’t that John wasn’t used to the adrenaline that surged his system every once in a while, it was that this was the longest John had ever had to deal with it. 

 

Usually, this would happen whilst taking down the criminals of London, or running through the city streets to catch some psychopathic villain. Sometimes he would need to attack someone for a case, or even dodge a few bullets for the sake of justice.

 

It was  _ not _ common that John felt his palms get sweaty from looking at the calendar; or, more specifically, looking at a certain date on the calendar and watching it get closer by the second.

 

Walking downstairs the morning of the reunion, John tried his best not to act like anything was out of the ordinary. He tried to treat it like just another case, like it wasn’t eating him up on the inside. 

 

It was.

 

“John?” John snapped back to life at the sound of his name, attempting to clear his mind of all the thoughts bouncing around in his head. He looked over to see a slightly-worried Sherlock, lying horizontally on the couch, fingers under his chin, one eye open.

 

John cleared his throat. “Hmm?”

 

Standing up, Sherlock made his way over to the kitchen. “Tonight is the reunion, you know.”

 

“Right...”

 

“And we’re pretending to be husbands.”

 

“Correct.”

 

“We’re going to need rings, John.”

 

Oh.

 

Oh,  _ shit _ .

 

John had completely forgotten about actually looking the part as well as playing it. Sherlock clearly had an idea of where to get them, but John didn’t even want to think about that. Rubbing the back of his neck, he looked anywhere but Sherlock’s face.

 

“I suppose I can get the old ones that Mary and I used to wear.”

 

There it was.

 

The statement was out there, now. He couldn’t take it back, no matter how terribly desperately he wanted to.

 

“Great!”

 

Slowly turning around, John took his time retrieving them from the drawer in his room. After a few tries to get the thing open, he rubbed the dust off the two rings. Breathing harder than he should have, he walked back downstairs.

 

Sherlock was still waiting by the kitchen, expectant. If there was an anxiety building in him, his face didn’t show it.

 

John held one of the rings out to Sherlock, looking down at an imaginary stain on his shirt. “Here’s the, um,” pause. “Ring. If you, uh, want it.”

 

He tried not to think too hard about the situation, and busied himself by making some tea, ignoring Sherlock beside him, sliding the ring on his finger.

 

It fit perfectly.

 

“We’re also going to need a story. You know, about how we met, got married, etc.” Sherlock said, folding his arms. “I thought we could keep it simple, as we would be less likely to forget it. We’ll say that Mike introduced us, we began dating, you moved in after a few months, and we got married at Saint Paul’s.”

 

John froze, mugs still in his hand. “Maybe not Saint Paul’s?” He began, carefully. “I just don’t think it should be where. You know. Mary and I got married.”

 

Sherlock paused, studying John for just a second. “Okay. Saint Mark’s, then.”

 

“Sounds good to me.”

He walked back upstairs, ignoring the whistling kettle.

 

\- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - 

 

Six p.m.

 

Only ten minutes left until they had to leave.

 

Shit shit shit shit shit.

 

John fixed and refixed his hair in the mirror, dumping almost gallons of product into it, trying to mold it into something that didn’t remind him of a dead rat. Flashbacks to meeting “Jim from I.T.” all those years ago -  _ He’s gay because he puts a bit of product in his hair? I put product in my hair _ \- haunted his mind. John shook his head, trying to erase the thoughts.

 

Adjusting the position of the ring on his finger, John walked out of his bedroom and down the stairs, and fixed the collar on his one good suit.

Then, of course, Sherlock walked out of the bathroom looking like the cover of an Abercrombie & Fitch magazine, but that was neither here nor there.

John tried his best not to stare, he really did.

 

Nodding once at John, approvingly, Sherlock looked through the window and down at the city streets below. Damp from the day’s rain, passerby’s sneakers squelched with each step. “You don’t have to do this, you know.”

 

It was rare for John to hear Sherlock be this quiet and serious, especially about something unrelated to a case. “I know.”

 

“But you will.”

 

“Yes.”

 

“Why?”

 

John had asked the same question of himself moments before, as he peered into the bathroom mirror. It was a damn good question, truth be told. Why was he going to make himself go through this, just so Sherlock could be happy?

 

Then again, when did John not put himself through hell for his flatmate?

 

Not being able to think of a good reason, John settled on, “Because.”

 

A long silence filled the room, and for a moment, John wasn’t sure if Sherlock had heard him. Turning around, Sherlock met John’s eyes from across the flat. “Thank you.”

 

There was an electricity in the air, and John felt frozen to his place, standing awkwardly in the kitchen, hands empty at his sides. His tongue felt heavy in his mouth, unable to form any kind of decipherable sound.

 

John broke the spell and turned around to grab his keys of the counter, moving like everything was completely normal. “Of course.”

 

A muffled honk sounded from the street below. “Well,” Sherlock said. “Here’s our ride.”


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A limousine, a confession, and shocking news; aka a normal day in John Watson's life.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello!  
> See, I told you the break wouldn't be that long.  
> Anyway, this chapter is a bit more fast-paced than the other ones, but I was really excited to write it, so I guess that rubbed off on the other characters.  
> (Also, sorry not sorry about the cliffhanger at the end. I just can't help myself.)  
> Comments, criticism, and kudos are appreciated!

It wasn’t that John wasn’t used to Mycroft’s meddling, it was that this was the longest John had ever had to deal with it.

 

The only sound in the entire limo was its quiet engine whirring, muffled by the layers of metal and engineering. John hadn’t expected Mycroft to care so much about a high school reunion to send a bloody limousine, chauffeur and all, but there they were, sitting too far away from each other, pretending not to steal glances when the other wasn’t looking, and having an overall miserable experience.

 

“It’s an hour away, right?” John asked. He had looked it up on his phone before they left,  but he needed something,  _ anything _ , to break the silence.

 

Sherlock nodded a quiet, “Mm,” fiddling with the ring around his finger and staring out of his window.

 

John pretended to not be bothered.

 

Street lamps lit up the roads as they passed, shedding yellow light on the black pavement. Bugs tapped at the lightbulbs as John let his mind wander.

 

Sherlock’s earlier question plagued his mind, no matter how much he wished it away. What  _ was _ he even doing? It would have been so much easier to just tell Sherlock to go alone, or to not go at all. Instead, John hadn’t put up a fight, and even gave him Mary’s old ring like it hadn’t even mattered. He was usually so careful about keeping people from talking, from assuming that he and Sherlock were something they weren’t, and here he was, playing husband to his flatmate in front of at least 50 people.

 

John sighed, rubbing his temples.

 

He was thinking too much.

 

“I should, erm, warn you, John.” Sherlock began awkwardly. He shifted over in his seat a bit. “You already know about my fair share of enemies, of course.”

 

John nodded, heart hammering in his chest, afraid of what Sherlock may say next.

 

“Most of them, if not all, are homophobic, so be prepared for a few snide comments at our expense.”

 

Oh. That wasn’t too bad, John supposed. Of course Sherlock would make enemies with the ignorant, that only makes sens- “Wait.”

 

“Hmm?”

 

“How do you know they’re homophobic?” John questioned, leaning forward a bit. “I’m assuming that homosexuality wasn’t a common topic in high schools during the, what, ‘80s? ‘90s? So how would you know?”

 

Sherlock blinked a few times and responded, as casually as someone talking about their favorite kind of tea, “I’m gay, John.”

 

The world stopped spinning.

 

\- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - 

 

“You’re what?”

 

“Gay. Homosexual. Attracted to men.”

 

“No, I know what the word gay  _ means _ , I just-” John paused, searching for the right words and finding none. “You? Really?”

 

Sherlock leaned back defensively and folded his arms, a look of disdain painting his face. “Is there something wrong with that?” He asked, clearly expecting an argument to break out.

 

“No, no, not at all,” John stammered to explain himself. “I just didn’t think - you? Seriously?”

 

“Yes, me. Seriously.” Sherlock sighed. “You really didn’t know? What did you think I meant by ‘girlfriends aren’t really my area’?” 

 

“I don’t know, I guess I didn’t really think you… liked anyone. Regardless of gender.”

 

“Well, as usual, you were wrong.” Sherlock’s shoulders relaxed from their position at his realization that this conversation didn’t stem from a place of ignorance or hate, just confusion. “What about Mrs. Hudson and Angelo? Why would they think we were together if they didn’t know I was gay?”

 

John grimaced, remembering the awkward conversations he had had with both people, then to his first meeting with Mycroft. “I don’t know, I just…”  _ didn’t want to get my hopes up _ , his mind unhelpfully provided. “Didn’t want to assume anything.”

 

Sherlock sighed again. “You wouldn’t have been assuming, John, you would’ve been deducing.”

 

“Well, I don’t know what you want me to say. I didn’t know and now I do. End of story.” Ugh. That sounded nicer in John’s head, but the strangely defensive statement popped out before he could stop it.

 

Sherlock opened his mouth to say something, but quickly closed it. He sat back in his seat and angled his body towards the window, pointedly ignoring John.

 

Great.

 

\- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - 

 

John tried his best to not look out of place by playing gay in front of 100 strangers milling around a punch table, but then again, there weren’t many people who looked natural at a high school reunion.

 

He was surprised to find Sherlock’s arm snaking around his waist, tensing up at the touch. Reminding himself that this was purely for the disguise, he relaxed a bit and tried to appear as a happy, normal couple.

 

“William? William Holmes?” It took John a few seconds to realize the question was addressed at Sherlock.  _ He was called by his first name in high school? _ John snorted, which earned him an elbow in the stomach from his partner.

 

Sherlock smiled tightly. “Victor, hi. Nice to see you.”

 

“I almost didn’t recognize you! It really has been a while, hasn’t it?” Victor stuck out his hand and smiled warmly. A mildly attractive man around their age, he was the epitome of charming, almost certainly having been popular in high school. 

 

“It has, it has.” Sherlock said, shaking his hand politely. An awkward silence stretched between the three for a few moments before he continued, “Oh, yes, sorry, you must excuse my manners; this is my husband, John.”

 

John shook off the strange feeling that came with being called “husband” and shook Victor’s hand. “Hello, nice to meet you.”

 

“John. A pleasure.” Leaning down, Victor lets his lips brush the back of John’s hand. 

 

John looked over at Sherlock, raising his eyebrows and grinning a bit. 

 

Sherlock decidedly looked away.

 

“So, how long have you and Sherlock - sorry,  _ William _ \- known each other?” John asked, making conversation as casually and pleasantly as he could. Another withering look from his flatmate, well deserved.

 

“Well, we-”

 

Before Victor could finish his sentence, an ear-piercing scream shattered the comfortable white noise of the event. Turning immediately, John saw a woman, white as a ghost, running into the event room, eyes wide as saucers. She was shaking and hyperventilating severely as she sank to the ground.

 

Murmurs of concern swept through the crowd as John instinctively made his way over, checking for injury. “What’s the matter? Are you hurt?”

 

The woman shook her head, taking gulps of air through her mouth. When she finally looked at John, all she said was, “My husband… he’s dead!”


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John and Sherlock are completely used to solving murders.  
> They're just not used to pretending to be married while doing so.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello!  
> So, chapter four. I'm sorry that I didn't get around to the actual murder as much as I would've liked to, but next chapter will be full of the crime, I promise. For now, I just needed to focus on the boys, and how to work Victor into the story.  
> Comments, criticism, and kudos are much appreciated.  
> Happy reading!

It wasn’t that John wasn’t used to Sherlock’s indecency, it was that this was the longest John had ever had to deal with it.

 

The gasps traveling through the crowd were not enough to hide the single squeal of delight coming from a certain consulting detective. Later, of course, Sherlock would deny that this was a squeal (“It was an exclamation of excitement, John, I’m not some giddy schoolgirl around her crush.”) but nevertheless, John had to shoot a withering glance over his shoulder just to make sure no one slapped his stand-in husband.

 

“Calm down, miss, please. Just explain what happened.” John tried his best to placate the hysterical woman, sitting her down on a nearby fold-up chair. The blood had drained from her face, giving her skin an almost translucent appearance. Her hands were clammy, grasping onto John’s for support as she lowered herself onto the seat. It didn’t take a genius to figure out that this woman was going into shock - her rapid and shallow breathing confirmed it.

 

John looked around at the crowd. “Quick, can someone call an ambulance? Swiftly, now, she’s going into sho-”

 

“I think this poor woman is heading into shock! Stand back, everyone, I’m a doctor!” John turned around to see Victor jogging “heroically” towards the pair, moving John out of the way to reach her.

 

“Yes, thank you.” John muttered quietly, irritation seeping onto his expression. “It’s okay, Victor, I’m a doctor too, I’ve got this. Can you just phone the polic-”

 

“Stand back, John, I may need to give her CPR. I am registered, don’t fret.”

 

“I wasn’t fretting, I just-” John sighed deeply, a muscle in his jaw twitching. “Don’t give her CPR, she only needs it if she isn’t breathing or has a lot of trouble.” He was dangerously close to socking this man.

 

“Trust me, I know the signs,” Victor replied. He looked at John the way one might look at a confused child. 

 

John raised his eyebrows and smiled venomously.  _ Oh, that patronizing bastard. _ “Oh, do you? Sorry about that. I’m just Doctor John H. Watson of the Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers, trained at Bart’s for almost a decade, with years of treating dying soldiers in Afghanistan whilst fighting for the country you live in under my belt. But yes, please, go ahead and give this woman CPR. I’m sure you know much more than I do.”

 

Silence fell between the two doctors, John refusing to break eye contact. 

 

Victor cleared his throat and looked away.

 

“Right. Sorry about that. I’ll just… get out of you way.” He stammered, less than gracefully.

 

“Do that, would you?” John turned his attention back to the panicking woman. He skimmed his eyes across the peeling name tag that read “Jennifer” and looked back up at her. “Jennifer, I’m going to need you to relax, okay? Don’t stand up, just sit here. Keep grabbing onto my hand. The medics will be here soon.”

 

“He - he’s dead and gone and - and there was so much  _ blood _ \- I just - I tried to scream, but-” Jennifer broke down into a series of sobs, shaking violently. 

 

“Shh, I know, we’ll get this sorted out, don’t worry, shh.” John squeezed her hand, trying not to show his own fear about the situation. He know she wasn’t coherent - there was no sense in getting any information out of her now. He just needed to make sure she could stay alive and out of shock.

 

Looking up for the first time, he saw the small group of people looking at each other nervously, hands shaking. Couples grabbed onto each other in unsure fear. 

 

He looked at Sherlock, nodding once.

 

“Everyone, we’re going to need you to stay calm, got it? I’m sure this is a false alarm, or… something.” John stood up, addressing the crowd. He had pulled this trick before; stay calm and authoritative, and people will mimic you. Then they can get out of the way so you can get to the real problem. “Just wait until the police arrive. Everything will be sorted out.”

 

The fake reassurance worked quick well.

 

As John turned back to Jennifer, checking for injury, he felt Sherlock’s presence behind him. “Hello, William.”

 

“If you ever call me that again I will not hesitate to dump the remains of the past month’s experiments into your pillowcases when you least suspect it.” Sherlock spat out.

 

“Looking forward to it.”

 

Sherlock crouched down next to John, looking at him curiously. “It’s been a while since you’ve pulled rank.”

 

John finished his inspection (no injuries) and stood up, Sherlock mirroring him. “I know. It felt kind of good, honestly. And I was more than glad to put Victor in his place.”

 

Pause. “Mm.”

 

“Is something wrong?” John turned. Sherlock was staring forward at the man in question, mingling with all the other guests.

 

“No, not really, it’s just…” Sherlock trailed off for a moment. “He was one of my former ‘enemies’, back in school.”

 

A monster roared to life in John’s stomach, anger pulsing through him abruptly. He cocked his head to one side. “Oh?” This man was getting more sickening by the millisecond, he could swear it.

 

“He was the one who outed me, actually.”

 

“Jesus Christ, that’s terrible. In the ‘80s? God.”

 

“Yeah, well. Tough age, regardless.”

 

Sherlock’s fingers fidgeting with his faux ring was not lost on John.

 

“Hold on,” John began, still glaring at Victor from across the room. “Why is he so…  _ nice _ , now? When I say ‘nice’, I mean ‘not homophobic or directly violent’, of course. Still not the most pleasant of fellows.”

 

Sherlock furrowed his brows and chewed his cheek thoughtfully. “I think he calculated that it wasn’t worth it anymore.”

 

“How so?”

 

“No one left to impress. No one left to gawk at me, or to admire his ‘genius’ work of figuring out I liked guys. Frankly, I’m surprised no one else saw it. I was, for lack of a better word,  _ flamboyantly  _ homosexual.”

 

John chuckled once at the joke to hide the fury that simmered beneath his skin. “Well, just a few more hours with him, and we can forget he exists.”

 

\- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - 

 

Rooms away, crimson blood dripped from the crescent shaped gash in Mr. Andrews’ forehead, stark against the cold, ghost-white skin, the air around him contaminated with the stench of rotting flesh and tendons. A trail of the red liquid trickled under the door of the bathroom, pooling into a dark puddle in the dip in the floor. The black wire constricted around his corpse, as if he needed another reason to be dead. Suddenly, the sound of hesitant footprints interrupted the almost-peaceful silence of the bathroom stall.

 

The door opened.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock discovers the killer is in the same room, which means John has to make sure the police don't get there quite yet. That's the reason Sherlock tells him to do so, anyway. What other reason could there be?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello!  
> Quick note about this chapter: I snuck a quick reference to "Murder on the Orient Express" (because I just couldn't resist), which is why there's one piece of Sherlock's dialogue a bit OOC.   
> I'm pretty happy with how this chapter turned out, and I hope you guys like it too.  
> Happy reading!

It wasn’t that John wasn’t used to panic, it was that this was the longest John had ever had to deal with it.

He could put up with initial shock at discovering something, but usually clients came to John and Sherlock long after they had recovered. This time, however, there were fifty people all in the middle of panic attacks, a sobbing widow, and a cafeteria that was way too small to hold all of them.

 

Sherlock was having a field day.

 

“What if it’s murder? Oh, I hope it’s murder. Maybe even a serial killer! I  _ knew _ the killing community had been too quiet for too long, I knew it! John. Do you think it’s murder? Please tell me you think it’s murder.”

 

“Sure, Sherlock. It’s murder.”

 

“Yes! Christmas came early!” Sherlock was speaking so quickly that John agreed to 

everything he said just to get him to stop. Luckily, most people were too involved in their own worried conversations to really pay attention to the detective; John knew that they would probably be unhappy with the grin on his face anyway.

 

John nudged him in the ribs when he started smiling a bit too hard, just to make sure no one got punched tonight.

 

“Well, the police will be here soon, so get your indecency out now, before Anderson sees it and never lets you live it down.”

 

“Oh, who cares about him? He has even less between his ears than he does between his thighs.” Sherlock paused for a second, clearly proud of himself for that insult, before continuing just as quickly as before. “Besides, the police will only get in the way, when  _ clearly _ the killer is still here-” 

 

For a few seconds, John was convinced that Sherlock was going into shock too; his face froze, mouth hanging open, before he sprung into action. 

 

Bolting towards any and all exits, Sherlock swung the doors closed, locking them in place before moving onto the next. “John,” he panted between sprints. “Phone Lestrade, Donovan, Anderson,  _ anybody _ . The police can _ not _ arrive. If they do, everyone is in danger.”

 

John followed Sherlock, slamming each double door shut before turning towards him. “What? Why?” He asked, incredulous. 

 

“John. Don’t you see?” Sherlock looked at him, eyes wide, mouth turned ever-so-slightly upwards. “The murderer is with us… in this room now!”

 

\- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - 

 

John took a sharp intake of breath before shushing Sherlock. “What do you mean, he’s in this room?” He nearly-whispered. “And why should that stop the police?”

 

Sherlock looked at him impatiently, like one that was starting to become fed up with a child’s annoying questions. “Because if the police arrive, people can leave. Everyone would be milling about - it’d be the perfect opportunity for a killer to disappear. Besides, the detective group there is so terrible at what they do, they’d let a suspect talk them into letting them go. You’ve seen how easy they are to win over, now stop standing there, and tell them to bug off!”

 

“Fine, fine, Jesus, just- how do we even know it’s a murder? It could be a heart attack, an injury, an accident. Anything, really.”

 

“His wife, John. She hasn’t just seen injury, she’s seen violence. Besides, she’s certain that he’s dead. An accident? She’d call an ambulance. But murder? She couldn’t think straight after witnessing  _ murder _ .”

 

“ _ I _ could.”

 

“You had to. Besides, you’re… you.”

 

John was about to question what exactly Sherlock meant by that ( _ Of course I’m “me”, what the hell does that even imply? _ ) when who else but Victor sauntered over, apparently coming back from his ego-repair break.

 

“I do hope I’m not interrupting anything here, I just wanted to see how you two were doing. Luckily, I’ve seen enough of this that I’m fairly desensitized to it. It must be hard for you, though, William.”

 

Before John could tear Victor a new one, he felt an arm wrap around him, landing on his shoulder and sliding up and down his left sleeve. “Luckily,” he felt Sherlock say, his voice vibrating against John’s back through his chest. “I have my terrific husband here to help. Although you already know about his qualifications, don’t you?”

 

John forced his breathing to remain stable and fought down the blood creeping up to his face. Looking straight forward, he tried to relax his shoulders -  _ they were supposed to be married, after all  _ \- and failed, miserably.

 

A long few seconds stretched between the three of them. Victor tilted his head a bit, eyeing Sherlock curiously. “You really do love him, don’t you?” He asked, voice innocent.

 

This time, Sherlock was the one frozen in place. 

 

Except for his hand, of course, which began fiddling with the ring even more than usual, resting on John’s shoulder.

 

“Of course I do.” He said after a couple moments of silence. “I did marry him, after all.”

 

John kept staring forward, a challenge dancing in his eyes. He tried his best to show no symptoms of what just happened affecting him at all; instead, he kept his posture upright, and, unknowingly, held his breath. Once a soldier, always a soldier.

 

He studied Victor carefully, from the tilted head to the furrowed brows. He really did look like he was unraveling a particularly difficult puzzle. 

 

“Well,” Victor broke the silence. “I’m glad you two are happy together. If you’ll excuse me, I have some other friends to catch up with.”

 

John released his breath and awkwardly slided out of Sherlock’s grip, watching carefully as Victor walked away to irritate some other couple. “I’ll just… phone Lestrade, now. Um. Yeah. I’ll be right back.”

 

Sherlock nodded absentmindedly and began to walk over to Jennifer. John was too preoccupied to make sure the questioning wasn’t too cruel.

 

Dialing Lestrade’s number, John held the phone up to his ear and paced around, waiting for someone to pick up. After three rings, the familiar voice of the D.I. crackled through his cell. “We’re on our way, John, sorry it’s taking so long, but I swear we’ll be there soon. Is there any more information? Any at all?”

 

“How far away are you right now?”

 

“Ten, fifteen minutes, maybe? It is a long drive.”

 

“Good. I know this is kind of a strange request, but can you turn back around? Tell them it was a false alarm or something?”

 

John could sense Lestrade’s confusion over the phone. “What? Why?”

 

Sighing, John lowered his voice significantly. “Sherlock thinks the murderer is still in the room with us. He says that if the police come, the killer has a chance to escape, and we need to figure out who it is before calling the authorities.”

 

“I can’t exactly tell the police to just go away, if that’s what you’re asking. And how do we know it’s a murder?”

 

“Long story; I can explain later.” Sherlock was gesturing at John to come over, and quickly. He probably found some gum on the bottom of someone’s shoe that told him their entire life story by now. “I’m sorry, Greg, but Sherlock was the one who suggested it. Is there anything you can do?”

 

Lestrade paused a few moments before sighing into the phone. “I might be able to keep them from going inside the building. If we wait outside, do you promise Sherlock will have the culprit by the end of night? My head’s on the line here.”

 

John looked over at his stand-in husband, rushing about, probably hot on the trail of something that John would never think of in the first place.

 

He was Sherlock Holmes, after all.

 

“Yeah,” John said into his cell. “I promise.”


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock and John investigate and try to keep their emotions out of the picture.  
> Emphasis on try.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey again!  
> So sorry that this took so long - school started, as did twenty other responsibilities that make me want to curl up in my room for five months.  
> Also, sorry about the end of this chapter. I know that I'm a terrible person.  
> :)  
> Happy reading!

It wasn’t that John wasn’t used to being called an idiot, it was that this was the longest John had ever had to deal with it.

Almost every other case was filled with police officers mulling around for Sherlock to offend, but this time, John was the sole scapegoat for Sherlock to take his frustrations out on. He wasn’t particularly offended (he had gotten desensitized to this enough to know it wasn’t actually personal), but the insults did get old after a while.

 

“No, John, of course he wasn’t  _ hanged _ . Look at his neck, for God’s sake.” 

 

John sighed, shoving his hands into the deep pockets of his dress pants. “We can’t be sure before there’s an autopsy. And why is that wire hanging around him, then?”

 

“Last-minute attempt at a red herring, judging by the fact there is no actual restrictions of airways or bruising around his throat. I thought you were a doctor, John, do keep up.”

 

“Right.” John ignored the jab and resumed his examination of the rest of the scene, stepping carefully over the small puddle of blood near his left foot. “What’d you learn from Jennifer, by the way? That questioning was pretty short.”

 

“When you skip the usual pleasantries of conversation, you start to find information much more efficiently available.” Sherlock shifted the top half of the body over, surveying the toilet behind him. “His full name is - was - Michael Arthur Andrews. He was recently married to Jennifer, but had yet to move out of the flat he shared with his friend, Ryan.”

 

“That’s… a bit strange.” John commented. “People move in even before they’re engaged, usually.”

 

“Usually, but Michael claimed it was ‘too soon’. He wanted to find the perfect place first, before he even began packing up.”

 

“Any other features of interest?”

“Not much. Zoologist, had diabetes, that kind of stuff. I’d say heterosexual, but his search history suggests otherwise.”

 

John looked up, squinting his eyes at Sherlock. “Is that  _ his _ phone? How’d you get into that?”

Sherlock smirked and pocketed the cell. “Password was written on a note in his jacket pocket. So, married to a woman, new smartphone, but already looked up ten different homosexual pornography sites? He’s as convincing a straight man as you are.”

 

Nodding, John turned back around, searching the blood splatter on the wall. Then, as the words processed in his brain, he looked back at Sherlock. “Sorry, what?”

 

“Hmm?”

 

“‘As convincing a straight man as you are’? What does that mean?”

 

Sherlock leaned back and grimaced. “Oh, I forgot you haven’t come to terms with it yet. Sorry about that. Give it a month.”

 

“Sherlock, wha- I’m not gay, okay? I married a woman, you know.”

 

“So did Michael.”

 

“That’s not-”

 

“Just because you aren’t gay doesn’t mean you’re straight, John.” Sherlock stood up fully. “You could be bisexual. Or pansexual. Or polysexual. Or omnisexual. Or queer. Or-”

 

“Yeah, thanks, I got it.” John responded bitterly. “But I’m not. I don’t like men.”

 

“Well…”

 

“I don’t!”

 

“You’re seriously trying to tell me there was nothing between you and Major Sholto? Ever?”

 

“What are you on about?” John felt his voice start to rise as blood rushed to his ears. He crossed his arms subconsciously.

 

Sherlock took a step closer. “What about in the army, then? Or a few cases ago with our client?”

 

“Sherlock…” A warning.

“Or are you so stubborn in your own ways you won’t even admit what you are? I’d expect that from a lesser man, John, but not from you.” Another step.

 

“Sherlock…” Firmer, now.

 

“I am the master of deduction, John, don’t try to convince me that you’re _ straight _ .”  He spat out the word like poison.

 

“What’s so wrong with being straight? Why do you want me to be gay so bloody bad?” John could hear his voice echo from the tiled walls of the stall. “If I didn’t know any better, I’d say the great Sherlock Holmes is in bloody love with me.”

 

Silence struck the two like lightning.

 

John broke eye contact first, fumbling immediately. “I didn’t- that’s not what I-”

 

“Yes it was.” Heavy pause. “That was exactly what you meant.”

 

“Sherlock-”

 

“Don’t.”

 

“I-”

 

“Just fucking don’t.”

 

Pushing past him, Sherlock left the stall in a cold silence, but his fading footsteps were deafening.

 

\- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - 

 

John stood in place long enough to lose feeling in his legs, but he didn’t care. All he could think about was the conversation (argument? fight?) playing over and over inside his mind. 

 

He said the word “shit” the way people breathed; often and instinctually. 

How easy this night had seemed before, viewed from the safety of weeks away on the calendar. How easily he convinced himself that what he…  _ felt _ … wouldn’t be an issue. Hindsight may be 20/20, but damn it, Watson, your planning skills can’t possibly be this terrible!

After a few terrible minutes of cringing over a corpse (not for the first time this week, of course) John steeled himself up the best he could. He went through a quick mental checklist because what else was he even supposed to do?

Was Sherlock pissed at him? Yes.

 

Did John deserve to have someone be pissed at him? Probably.

 

Was John going to sit here and mop about it? Bloody no.

 

Nodding a quick, “Right,” John stared forward and pushed open the stall door, marching out to the meeting room, letting no emotion cross his face-

 

That is, of course, until his line of vision crossed over Sherlock with his arms around Victor, limbs draped over each other like lovers.


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock and John deal with the aftermath of their argument, and a strange discovery is made.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Guess who's back  
> BACK AGAIN  
> Heyyy everybody!  
> So I know it's been about 2 months since my last upload, and I am seriously sorry about that. I don't have an excuse this time, just general scheduling and some personal stuff, but I'm back and still writing! (For anyone curious, I'm willing to keep writing this until it naturally ends - no plan of stopping anytime soon).  
> I also want to thank you guys for the amazing comments I've been getting - as someone who dreams of becoming a published author one day, I can't tell you how much they encourage me.  
> Happy reading!

It wasn't that John wasn’t used to hiding his emotions, it was that this was the longest John had ever had to deal with it.

 

He had had plenty of practice in the army, his childhood - hell, even most of his time with Sherlock was spent playing keep-away with his feelings. 

 

But every other time this happened, there was a bathroom to run to, a friend to call, an excuse to be made. There was a safety net that John didn’t realize he had until it had fallen out from under him, leaving him flailing through the air, trying to catch himself on an explanation that wasn’t there.

 

Trying to catch himself as the air got sucked out of the room, as every little thing in his field of vision boiled down to two forms performing a delicate dance he had never learned, so when John headed over to the two men, he had no plan, no idea, no  _ nothing  _ of what he was about to do.

 

“Sherlock,  _ dearest _ ,” John smiled poisonously, wrapping his hands around the taller man’s forearm a bit too tight to be lovingly, “Would you mind stepping away from your lovely old friend here for just one second so we can have a little chat?”

 

Sherlock grinned back tightly. “Why,  _ darling _ ,” he stretched out the word, “What could you possibly have to tell me that you couldn’t have told me just a few moments ago? What ever could be the problem?”

 

The two stared at each other silently, fake smiles plastered onto their faces. 

 

A minute passed.

 

Victor coughed.

 

“You know, I really should start making my rounds…” Victor shoved his hands in his pockets and looked down. “I’d much rather stay with you two, but you know,” he waved his hands vaguely. 

 

“Oh, of course,” John replied. “I understand completely.”

 

Victor walked away a bit too quickly for someone trying to be so casual.

 

As soon as he was out of eyesight, John snapped back around to face Sherlock. “What the hell was that?”

 

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” A carefully balanced response.

 

John raised his eyebrows and snorted incredulously. “I’m  _ talking _ about you acting like Victor’s your knight in shining armor when we’re supposed to be married.”

 

“‘Knight in shining armor’?” Sherlock scoffed. “Please. It’s not my fault you’re too insecure to feel comfortable with your significant other showing signs of platonic affection to close friends. No wonder you’ve never had a healthy relationship before.”

 

John closed his eyes and sighed briefly, forcing his shoulders to relax before he broke his neck with all the tension. “I’m not…” he gritted his teeth. “We are not going to have this discussion right now.”

 

“Is that so? And why not?”

 

“Because there is a man lying dead in a bathroom, and our bickering isn’t going to solve anything!” John quickly lowered his voice as bystanders turned their heads judgmentally. “You’re Sherlock Holmes, for Christ’s sake, put your emotions to the side since you’re so talented at it and  _ let’s solve the damn case _ !”

\

Sherlock pursed his lips. “Fine.”

 

“Fine?”

 

“Fine,  _ husband _ .”

 

Then Sherlock Holmes kissed John Watson.

 

\- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -  

 

John froze against Sherlock’s mouth, a caricature of surprise. He supposed he should… what, exactly? Tell him to stop? Push him off?

 

Kiss back?

 

Before he could do any of that (or even analyze why he was seriously considering the last option), Sherlock pulled away, smug. 

 

“See?” He said.

 

“See what?”

 

“I’m not in love with you at all.”

 

And with that, Sherlock waltzed back into the bathroom, with the distinct air of someone who knew exactly what he was doing.

 

\- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - 

 

John opened his mouth, then closed it again, then repeated the cycle a few times before blinking his thoughts away and turning to go after Sherlock. Now was not the time to unpack everything that happened, so he saved it for a sleepless night instead.

 

Pushing open the door to the bathroom stall, he saw Sherlock examining something on the ground next to the body, magnifying glass and everything.

 

“You brought that?”

 

“What?” John gestured to the tool. “Oh, yes, of course I did.”

 

“May I ask why, exactly?”

 

“Do you want an actual answer or are you going to ask anyway?”

 

“Fair enough.”

 

John smiled to himself. This felt more familiar - the back and forth of their usual banter, natural talking. None of this marriage or kissing or arguing or murder.

 

Well, murder was part of their daily routine, to be fair.

 

“What’s over there?” John leaned to look over Sherlock’s shoulder, then wrinkled his nose at the sight. “Is that deer crap?”

 

“Rat feces, actually.”  

 

John cocked his head. “For such a nice place, you’d figure they would keep the vermin out.”

 

“They do.”

 

“What do you mean?”

 

Sherlock stood up, tucking the magnifying glass back into his jacket pocket. “This place doesn’t have a rat infestation. I’d have noticed that right away. This was a very specific rat with a very specific purpose.”

 

John snorted. “To take a shit on the bathroom floor?”

 

Sherlock shot him a look. “No, John. To kill.”


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A fall, some rat feces, and an almost love confession.  
> What could possibly be better?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ya girl is back (in less than two months, this time!)  
> So apparently I'm in my semiannual writing extravaganza, and am pumping out words by the second. Hopefully I'll be able to keep this up, and you guys will get some more chapters soon.  
> The pining in this chapter is real, let me warn you.  
> Happy reading! :)

It wasn’t that John wasn’t used to the absurd, it was that this was the longest John had ever had to deal with it.

 

Or, rather, the longest John had ever had to deal with it in an enclosed space while his flatmate was pretending to be his husband and standing on his shoulders so he could look into the air vent a poisonous rat allegedly climbed through before killing someone at a high school reunion.

 

Christ.

 

“God, Sherlock, how do you weigh so much for someone who never eats?” John shouted up at the detective, struggling under his feet. 

 

Sherlock’s muffled voice called back from the ceiling. “I’m a six foot tall grown man, John, I don’t know what you expected.”

 

John snorted. “Not this.”

 

“What?”

 

“Nothing.”

 

Sighing, John gripped Sherlock’s left ankle with his hand and kept the other on the wall in front of him, trying to keep them both from tipping over.  _ What a scene that would be _ , he thought to himself. 

 

Luckily, Sherlock was able to keep his arms inside the air vent, so John didn’t have to man  _ all _ his weight, but the process of getting him up there in the first place had been… difficult. He could feel the shoulders of his suit getting dirtier by the second, but Sherlock was certain someone had sent rats through the vent to kill Andrews.

 

“Ah!” Sherlock exclaimed satisfactorily, his voice echoing in the metal tube. “More rat excrement. I’m coming down now, John.”

 

“No, wait, I’m not re-”

 

_ Crash. _

  
  


“Fuck.”

 

The two of them had dropped violently, John falling forward into the stall door, pushing it open and catching himself with his hands.

 

Sherlock hadn’t been so lucky.

 

He had fallen the other way, limbs flailing, and landed right in the toilet, arse first.

 

John was hysterical.

 

“Oh, don’t look at me like that.” Sherlock shot him a look and flicked his hands, flinging the toilet water that had splashed on his sleeves across the room.

 

John covered his face with his arms, still giggling. “Oy, stop doing that! I don’t want strangers’ shit in my eye!”

 

“How do you think I feel about it soaking through my pants?” Sherlock retorted, a laugh creeping into his voice. The tops of his cheekbones were tinted pink, which didn’t slip past John’s notice.

 

“Are you - blushing?”

 

Sherlock stammered. “What?”

 

John grinned. “Your ears are red. You’re  _ actually _ blushing.” 

 

“I am not!” Sherlock protested, looking away quickly. “I think I hit my head on the fall. I’m not blushing. I don’t blush.”

 

“If you say so.” John smirked with the knowledge that the Sherlock Holmes was as embarrassed as an unfortunate high schooler. 

 

There was a moment of quiet that stretched between the two, and suddenly John’s pulse was racing with everything he didn’t say.

 

Until suddenly, he did.

 

“Have you ever been in love?”

 

\- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - 

 

John looked down at his mouth, shocked at what had come out. “I’m sorry, that’s nosy, I was just - I didn’t-”

 

“No, it’s… fine.” Sherlock glanced up at John, then back down to his feet, still dangling at an angle out of the toilet. Pulling himself out and sitting on the edge of the seat, he continued, “That’s what best friends talk about, isn’t it?”

 

John paused, then shrugged. “I guess. Then again, we’ve never really been a normal pair of best friends, have we?”

 

“Not quite.”

 

A beat.

 

“Twice, to answer your question.”

 

“Hmm?”

 

“I’ve been in love twice.” Sherlock stared at his hands, playing with his fingers in a distinctly out-of-character nervous fashion. “In my early teens, there was a boy across the street from my brother and I. He didn’t hate me as much as my other classmates did, and we grew close.”

 

John was afraid to move, as if any slight shift would remind Sherlock that his emotions were usually in the bottle next to his heart, kept neatly on a shelf no one ever touched. 

 

“Of course, he came to his senses a few years before I moved out and ditched me for a few other kids. I don’t blame him, of course. I’m terrible company.” He smiled sadly. “The whole fiasco made me swear of romance for years, and that about brings us to now.”

 

“Huh.” John leaned back thoughtfully. “You were the sentimental type, weren’t you?”

 

“One could say that, yes.”

 

John paused, biting his lip. “You said ‘twice’, though.”

 

“Sorry?”

 

“You said you’ve been in love twice.”

 

Sherlock opened his mouth, then closed it again. “Yeah. Yeah, I did.”

 

Getting up, he grabbed the sample of rat feces, flicked any remaining water off of his suit, and walked out the bathroom door, leaving John confused, scared, and maybe a little bit hopeful.


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John deals with the aftermath of whatever just happened, and Sherlock is sure the case is over.  
> Until it's not.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have nothing to say except rip all of you  
> I'm so sorry  
> Happy reading :)

It wasn’t that John wasn’t used to Sherlock’s ambiguity, it was that this was the longest John had ever had to deal with it.

 

In the span of the past hour, Sherlock had fought with John, flirted with Victor, kissed John, denied his love for him, fallen into a toilet, and maybe-possibly-kind-of admitted that yes, actually, he was in love with him, so scratch the previous remark, and left John on the bathroom floor, sitting next to a sample of rat feces and a corpse.

 

God, John needed an Aspirin.

 

He stood up, slowly, not quite sure what to do with his limbs, suddenly feeling foreign in his own body. What was he even going to do? Announce his feelings for Sherlock in front of everyone?

 

_ Feelings?  _ John was taken aback by his own thoughts.  _ Since when have I had feelings for him? _

 

Instinctually, he thought,  _ Since forever. _

 

“Right.” Determined to do something,  _ anything _ , John steeled up his shoulders and forced his legs to move out of the stall, back to the main room, back to the crowd.

 

Back to Sherlock.

 

John found him talking to an angry-looking woman, her arm around Jennifer. The similarities were uncanny, and if not for the crow’s feet at the end of the woman’s eyes, John would have guessed they were twins.

 

As he walked towards them, John caught part of the conversation. “...was a zoologist. I never cared much for the profession myself, but we all respected him for it.”

 

“And did he ever care for rats, specifically?” Sherlock was standing a few feet from the woman.

 

She paused. “He could have, I don’t really recall. He spent all his time with Ryan instead of my sister, anyway, so there was no way of knowing.” A note of bitterness creeped into her voice.

 

Sherlock turned at John’s presence, nodding a smile but not making eye contact. “Ah, John, thank you for joining me. John, this is Beth, Beth, John. He’s my assistant, so speak as freely in front of him as you would me.”

 

John blinked. “Assistant?”

 

Sherlock ignored him. “Beth is Jennifer’s sister. She was friends with Michael and Ryan before the marriage.” 

 

John reached out his hand to shake Beth’s. “I’m so sorry for your loss.”

 

Beth smiled tightly. “Thanks. There wasn’t a lot of love lost, anyway. We were never close.”

 

“Well, I think that will be all, then.” Sherlock wrapped up quickly, making eye contact with John and jerking his head slightly to the side. John nodded, showing he got the message.

 

Walking quickly in the other direction, both men leaned towards each other and lowered their voices. “That was quick.” John said.

 

Sherlock replied, “I didn’t need much information. I just need to confirm one thing, and this case is solved.”

 

John raised his eyebrows. “Really?”

 

“It was clearly Beth. She knew Michael was cheating on Jennifer with Ryan, and in an act of rage, used one of the rats he was keeping to track him down. The disease it carried and Michael’s diabetes meant that one bite would wipe him out, which it did.”

 

“Huh.” John said, fascinated by Sherlock’s deductions (and Sherlock himself). “What do you need to confirm, then?”

 

“If there’s a bite on Michael’s body and explicit texts between him and Ryan, we can phone Lestrade. It’s kind of a shame, really,” Sherlock said, disappointed. “I had more hope for this case. It’s barely a three.”

 

Pushing open the stall door, Sherlock crouched next to the corpse, pulling its collar down to reveal to dots of dried blood at the base of the neck. “Just as I suspected,” Sherlock grinned.

 

Fishing Michael’s phone out from his pocket, Sherlock typed in the passcode and opened the messaging app.

 

John stood next to him, uncertain.

 

After a few moments, Sherlock broke the silence. “You clearly want to say something, John, so please spit it out before it rots on your tongue.”

 

“I still don’t know how you can tell these things.”

 

“I have my ways.”

 

John held his hands behind his back, making sure Sherlock didn’t notice how sweaty his palms were. Of course, he would probably notice anyway, but it was the false sense of privacy John clung to.

 

“You never told me who the second person was.”

 

Sherlock’s fingers stopped typing, his face rising slowly from the screen. Turning, he looked at John.

 

“What?” His voice was hardly above a whisper.

 

“You said you were in love twice.” John stared at the floor. “Who was the second?”

 

Utter, suffocating silence filled the air between them. Sherlock’s mouth was partially open, eyes wide with… fear? Anxiety? John couldn’t tell.

 

After a few seconds, he broke the silence. “Sherlock, are… are you in love with me?”

 

Infinite moments passed before he got a response. “What would you do if I said yes?”

 

Beat.

 

“Would you still stay?”

 

John could feel the blood rushing in his ears, his heart crawling up his throat and choking him. “Yes.”

 

Time took ages to pass, now. John could swear he felt the Earth slow its spinning, everything lapsing into slow motion, the world falling away, just him and Sherlock in this God awful bathroom, the space between them getting smaller and smaller by the glacial second.

 

Sherlock reached up, slowly, scared, and let his hand rest on the back of John’s neck. Looking up at him, John saw Sherlock’s ragged breathing, his eyes darting back and forth, trying so hard to not be afraid.

 

He leaned in, pausing, staring at John’s mouth, the human embodiment of hesitation, before finally,  _ finally  _ -

 

A gunshot rang out from the cafeteria, and everyone started screaming.


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> When someone begins threatening the lives of everyone at the event, John and Sherlock must, once again, set the emotions aside and do what's right (or, at least, what's interesting).

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello  
> Welcome to (probably) the penultimate chapter of Reunited!  
> There may be two more if the writing takes me there, but if the next one will be last, I'd just like to thank you all for this year round journey of procrastination, fangirling, and growing as a writer. I love you all more than words can say.  
> Quick TW: This chapter continues a war flashback and a slight amount of violence. No deaths or heavy injuries, but I just thought I'd let you know.  
> Happy reading! :)

It wasn’t that John wasn’t used to sheer terror, it was that this was the longest John had ever had to deal with it.

 

He had grown accustomed to the constant, underlying fear in Afghanistan. If he wasn’t in a battle, he was waiting for one, waiting for the sound of his superior’s voice yelling  _ go, go, go, _ waiting to hear the crashing impacts of bombs, waiting for his friends to fall in an explosion of pain, calling for him, for the medic, he was waiting to feel a gunshot, hot and sharp through his shoulder, waiting to see red, red, red-

 

John gasped, coming back to reality, slumped against the shaky blue door of the high school bathroom. He squeezed his eyes closed, wrapping his arms around his body and burying his face, determined to shut out the world until it disappeared completely.

 

“ _ John _ !”

 

Well, not  _ completely _ .

 

John felt Sherlock’s hand pressed on his arm, something to ground him, to bring him back. He leaned into the touch gratefully, drawing in several breaths, each one hitching into a sob. 

 

Sherlock raised John’s face with his hands, rubbing his tears away with his thumbs. “John. John. It’s okay. We need to focus now, all right? Where do we go?”

 

John kept staring at the floor, blinking quickly, letting his instincts overtake him. “We need to find any exits. If we can’t do that, we hide. As a last resort, we fight. Everything depends on our vicinity to the shooter.”

 

Sherlock nodded tersely, briefly raising his head to look around the cramped restroom. “There aren’t any exits here. We could try to go through the air ducts, but I doubt we can fit. We need a second option.”

 

John nodded silently, a muscle in his jaw clenching for a moment. “All right. Plan B. We need to hide. If the shooter isn’t looking for us specifically, we might be able to wait it out. Text Lestrade and have him send in the police - they should be right outside.”

 

A sing-songy voice carried from the cafeteria, clearly the voice of the culprit. “Where’s that funny detective and his little friend, hmm? Scurry off to solve another mystery?”

 

John felt his face paling as his blood ran cold, hands pressed up against the wall behind him as his chest heaved with the shallow breaths he was taking. Ever the sensitive, all Sherlock could say was, “Or not.”

 

John shot him a look.

 

Sherlock smiled weakly.

 

Despite himself, John grinned back.

 

“Oh, no worries, I’ll find them soon enough.” Their smiles faded as the culprit kept talking. “For now, I’ll just have to make an example of someone.”

 

Sherlock, keeping his voice low, said, “It’s Beth. I can tell by the slight accent on her S’s. She knows I know she killed Michael, so I guess she’s trying to take everyone down with her. Unplanned, I assume, since she didn’t know we would be here.”

 

John nodded, wringing his hands together. “Unplanned is good, right? Unplanned means it wasn’t thought through.”

 

From the cafeteria, “Now who should I pick first?”

 

Sherlock replied to John quietly, saying, “Not necessarily. Rage is strongest in the moment.”

 

Beth’s voice again, “Should it be you?”

 

John swallowed around the closing walls of his throat. “What is there to do, then?”

 

“Or you?” Beth’s footsteps pounded against the floor.

 

“Nothing.”

 

Gunshot.

 

Scream.

 

“Except to stop her ourselves.”

\- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - 

 

John could feel the sweat dripping down the back of his neck, clinging to the hair at his nape, falling still down his shirt. He swallowed as the two of them rounded the corner, walking into the small hallway between the bathroom and cafeteria. 

 

Quietly, they snuck through the set of double doors leading into the wider area, John going second, shepherding Sherlock along. He forced the two of them behind a well-placed folded table towards the back of the cafeteria.

 

John’s fingers were wrapped around his gun, not shaking.

 

When he signalled to move, there was no build of anticipation, no tension before the snap, just a mindless order, similar to any other he had given throughout his career. If he had paused to think about it, he had learned, he would never do half the things he would without. When he ran up behind Beth, the sound in his ears was so blocked by his own rushing blood, he didn’t hear her gasp of surprise, the choking sound as his left arm hooked around her neck, the struggle as she fought back against him. He didn’t hear Sherlock pulling open the high school doors, or the flood of officers sprinting inside, pointing their metal weapons ahead of them, or his own yell as Beth struck his right thigh with a pocket knife. He didn’t hear the two officers pulling Beth away from him, clicking on her handcuffs and walking her away, or Sherlock’s yells for someone to  _ get John some medical assistance, he’s bloody hurt! _

 

When his pulse did come down, and all his senses reset to normal, the first thing he did was laugh.

 

At Sherlock’s horrified face, he laughed harder. “I’m fine, Sherlock, it’s barely a scrape. Nothing some Neosporin and a Band-Aid won’t fix.”

 

“You don’t know that! The knife could have had tetanus on it, or the plague, or….”

 

“If it’s tetanus, I’m vaccinated. If it’s the plague, well,” he chuckled. “That’d make for an interesting news article.”

 

Sherlock stood up, still looking nervously at John. “Right.” He fixed his coat around him and looked away. “Right. Yes. Excuse my outburst, I’m being silly. You’re right.”

 

John smiled. “I know I am. Army doctor, remember?”

 

“And somehow  _ I’m _ pegged as the arrogant one.”

 

“A true mystery.”

 

Sherlock exhaled in relief, grinning at his flatmate. “Thank  _ God _ this is over. Now I never have to see any of these people again.” He shot a glance at Victor, still sitting in the corner. “Particularly one.”

 

“Mm.” John acknowledged. “And I’m just excited to get out of this suit. I feel like James Bond gone wrong.”

 

Sherlock laughed, his defenses lower than usual after the event. “Then what are we waiting for?”

 

“What about Lestrade?”

 

Sherlock shrugged. “I’ll deal with him tomorrow.”

 

“Fair enough.” John fixed his jacket cuffs.

 

“Let’s go home.”


End file.
